


People can be so cold

by s_t_c_s



Series: Are you afraid or is it true [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Fairly Fluffy, Flowers, Friendship, Future Fic, Games, Idiots, Oral Sex, Poker, Romantic Comedy, Sex, Tropes abound, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unsafe Sex, an indecent proposal, mentions of Beth/OMCs, mentions of past beth/dean but mostly in terms of dean being TRASH, scrabble porn (figurative)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: Future fic - set a ways after the s2 finale.Beth and Rio are still/back in business together, they're not on GREAT footing but they're ok.They're definitely NOT Bffs though, no matter what Annie says.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: Are you afraid or is it true [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578559
Comments: 57
Kudos: 173





	People can be so cold

**Author's Note:**

> There's few things as enjoyable as rolling around in a fairly chunky one-shot, so I wanted to try to contribute one.
> 
> I've had this drafted for a serious whiiiile but wasn't entirely happy with it. I think I'm finally done tinkering now though!

It’s something Annie says, completely off the cuff, that sparks Beth’s wonderings. Which is probably not a distinctly wonderful sign – her little sister not exactly possessing world-renown for her ponderous, measured takes.

Still, it is what it is.

They’re sitting at the island in her kitchen when the notification comes through, and Beth’s immediately too attendant, attention soaked away by her phone.

Annie has to push a second time, “Who _is_ it?” to get any response.

Beth’s still frowning at the screen, distracted, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing on it, when she replies, “Rio.”

Annie makes a particularly nasal honk that’s not derisive exactly – she still holds a sizeable dose of fear for the guy, after all – but it definitely knocks against unimpressed.

“Yeah, how is your BFF?” she asks.

“He’s not my–” Beth begins, finally looking up, catching Annie’s brusque expression.

Beth was fully intending to launch into a diatribe about how that’s a position reserved for Ruby, but at the last moment she changes course. “Friend,” Beth says instead, “he’s not my friend.”

Because he’s _not_ , obviously. But also because while Ruby _is_ Beth’s very closest, Ruby undoubtedly fills that role for Annie too. And Beth thinks that Annie likes that fact – that sharing a best friend pulls their sisterly bond even tighter – but also that she must get a little frustrated by it too. And Annie and Ruby had drawn closer, formed more of a unit than ever, in the wake of the shooting and the whole he’s not dead reveal, and everything that came _after_.

It’s been the three of them against the world for so long that Beth would never think to begrudge those two their deepened connection, no matter how unfamiliar the place of thirdest wheel sits for her. She can sort of understand the impetus for Annie to want to set her up with a new friend; it’s like how she herself has always enjoyed how much Ruby she gets to herself whenever Annie’s dating someone seriously.

“So that’s a message about work?” Annie already sounds smug.

It tempts Beth towards lying for a second, but her desire to complain wins out after all. She thrusts her phone at her sister with a beleaguered sigh.

Annie looks confused, and then kind of disparaging. Beth’s phone displays a scrabble app, though it’s not Words With Friends, which Beth thinks might be a point in her favour in this context. She rejects the inkling to highlight that to Annie though, concerned about being accused of juvenility. It’d be an uncomfortable review for her to receive from that particular source.

The app is called Absolutely Scrabulous, and it’s got a very fast load time and delightfully few ads. She can imagine Rio, ever meticulous, picking it from its competitors, pleased. Maybe he diligently researched the topic first, or tried them all out himself before settling in on his choice.

The two of them play against each other a fair bit, and the thing is – Rio’s probably _technically_ better at it than she is. He seems to have swallowed the entire dictionary, with a whole host of scientific and engineering terms she wasn’t familiar with in the midst. Beth looks them up sometimes, when he bests her with ones she’s incredulous about the reality of. She’s not sure if they’re a sign of some past academic focus or business interest maybe, or if they’re simply cool tools for his desire to win.

She wouldn’t put it past Rio to be cheating. A violent criminal seems unlikely to have a strict code of ethics about online gaming, she supposes. But she can’t entirely see the _point_ of him doing that. He’s irritatingly proud, she knows that well, so she can’t imagine him particularly enjoying false rewards. Rio’s smart, Beth’s potently aware of that fact, it’s not hard to believe that he’s that good at this. Hell, there’s little she thinks him bad at, generally. Other than maybe handling her appropriately, at least in their earlier days.

So, yeah, he probably is better at Scrabble than her. And Beth doesn’t really mind the fact, not that much. Sometimes she finds she just enjoys playing for the sake of playing, it’s a fun diversion. There’s simple joy in making words, she’s plumped for the names of flowers she loves, rather than going for something higher scoring, just _because_.

But, see, if he’s won two or three matches in a row, she tends to shift then, gets more competitive. Cos she has a specific style, one she doesn’t always employ. It’s a tactic she learnt from one of Ruby’s aunts, which Beth honed through her one-on-one games with Judith – who always played a lot harder when Dean wasn’t around. Beth doesn’t consistently utilise this cagey method, because it can slow the game considerably – she’s not immune to impatience – and it takes a bit of determination to stick to.

When she does though – barely opening the board at all, forcing one’s opponent to make tactically unsatisfying moves – she can tell it drives Rio up the fricking wall. He’s a flashier Scrabble player than she, goes for longer words, and it’s not so hard to back him into a corner. Sometimes he’ll resign a game like that, she assumes in a snit, and she’ll win automatically. Though he’ll always start another one after, or she will and he’ll accept. Or a couple of times they _both_ began a new game at around the same time, so they had two going simultaneously, and that was nice actually, gave them both a chance to win.

Beth doesn’t play against that many people. Annie says Scrabble’s boring, though Beth privately thinks that could just be her protecting herself from sore losing. Ruby claims she _can’t_ or she’ll get addicted to it, again. Sometimes Stan kicks off a game with Beth, and they’ll play a streak of maybe four or five in a row, but then somehow it’ll fade off, until one of them remembers, weeks or months later, to start it up again. And Judith, who isn’t that great with her iPhone still, will accidentally begin, like, seven or so games with her at once – Beth will politely accept one of the bunch.

Beth has Dean blocked on the app, just in case. There’s a shitty messaging feature inside the game and she just– It’s kind of her happy place, and she doesn’t want him encroaching on it. Dean has enough ways to pester her as it is.

Anyway, Rio’s somehow won their last _five_ Scrabble games. And Beth’s not a competitive asshole like he is – she’s _not_. That’s probably how it happened in fact, she wasn’t paying attention to the scores. But now her pride smarts, tender; she’s got a reputation to hold up. And–

“He’s played a seven letter word on the first go, Annie!” Beth’s phone wobbles a bit in her hand, as she tries to impress the gravity of her situation upon her sister.

Annie does not seem particularly concerned, nor interested.

“And I’ve got all these vowels!” Beth wails.

“Lame,” says Annie, decisively, before telling her that she’s heading out. Beth thinks she hears Annie muttering something under her breath about their boring asses deserving each other as she goes. Beth ignores it though, just waves her out, biting at her bottom lip as she contemplates whether keeping the board hemmed tight would make sense, or if this is already a lost cause.

*

They don’t really see each other much – she and Rio – is part of the thing. And Beth would’ve pointed that out, maybe triumphantly, to Annie, if she’d bothered to stick around. And it’s _better_ this way, for sure. It means they don’t get the opportunity to needle at each other, via any of their idiosyncracies.

Plus it makes sense. Beth’s too busy, too high up really, to be handling drops and overseeing day-to-day tasks. She’s got – well not _lackeys_ , she doesn’t like that word – a staff, for things like that. Rio’s obviously got better things to be doing than checking in on the minute mechanics of product distribution and so forth constantly. If he didn’t once upon a time, well, stuff was different back then, he obviously felt the need to keep an eye on Beth, for a multitude of reasons, when she was greener. Nowadays – Beth wouldn’t say they’re on _great_ footing, but that urgency, that heady panic, it seems long ago, far deflated.

In the first few months after he’d ripped back into her life, post-shooting, any interaction between the pair of them had been – wholly bad. Rio hadn’t moved to kill her, had seemed to prefer the idea of extracting maximum value from her. And that had gone a lot more smoothly when they didn’t have to see each other – and so they just _hadn’t_.

But work, crime, weirdly went well from there. It was as if their absolute lack of trust in each other had forced them to forge a path to mutual credit. She knows she had something to prove – and maybe he did too. Without their constant prodding at the other, drawing angry reactions, all the elements had ticked along invitingly.

And then one day, the Scrabble invite had turned up, and, she can admit, _th_ _at_ whole situation has snowballed slightly. Beth doesn’t think Rio hates her, and that’s weird, sure, but then again she doesn’t seem to hate him, so. Their Scrabble matches are soothing to her now, ritualistic. It’s devastatingly clear that they’re better off being far apart, but the rhythm is pleasant. It’s nice to know that he’s okay throughout the days, even if they don’t really speak, only exchanging words for points.

They do see each other for work sometimes, of course. Mostly only if there’s a potential problem, or one of them has had an empire-expanding idea. And they’ve learnt how to keep things civil, almost entirely professional, by now. But, friends? Beth’s not sure she’s ever heard anything so patently absurd. With everything that’s happened between the two of them, unfortunately allied nemeses seems a far more accurate descriptor.

Still, as Tuesday night edges closer, Beth finds it increasingly difficult to discard Annie’s slant.

*

The meet has been on the books for a while – with Mazzy, a potential new supplier. It goes well, almost by rote. Beth figures she could breeze through one of these in her sleep at this point. Mazzy has to take off a little early, after they’ve concluded the business chat, and Rio pooh-poohs his offers to contribute to the bill. So it’s just the two of them, unattended, when they get up to leave the restaurant.

Beth’s not entirely sure why she asks it, but ask she does, “What are you doing?”

She sees the way his face shifts, hears the joke without Rio making it. It goes something like, ‘Ain’t it me gotta keep an eye on you, not the other way round?’

Rio’s essentially a nagging voice in her head, and it’s riotously _annoying_. She hears him going off from there all the time – _set limits_ ; _nip that problem in the bud, yeah_ ; _push for more_ ; _gotta stay_ _ready to flip your game_ ; _be a boss bitch_. It’s part of why they don’t _need_ to speak all that much, she already knows what he’s going to say – a chipped off spur of him has residence in one of her corners, leaks bons mots. Occasionally she wonders if it’s the same for him, if there’s a small but insistent Beth in his mind, what she might tell him.

Beth’s not sure if he’s actually going to spout a quip at her – though she watches it cross his features. Rio doesn’t always – she’ll leave these accidental openings in conversation sometimes, observes that delight at the opportunity to tease form, then quiet away. It’s as if he thinks it’s a bad idea; that nothing good would come of it. When Rio does indulge, it neatens her somehow, she can’t help but take it for obliging proof that he doesn’t detest her.

She doesn’t give him a chance to decide to mock or not, pushing on with, “I mean, next. _Now_. After.”

Beth hates the dumb faux-pockets of her jeans, her errant fidget-hungry fingers are in want of hiding places.

Rio pauses to give her a once-over before replying, one eyebrow in particular sauntering modestly.

“Not got much planned.”

He’s _easy_ in a way she can’t imagine wearing, when he tells her that. If the roles were reversed she’d probably lie – at least make up some cancelled arrangement.

But he’s too cocky to have an issue with admitting to an unbusy evening, or perhaps she just doesn’t warrant the bother of weaving falsehoods.

And that’s what leads to them grabbing a drink. It’s not at their – his…? – _that_ bar, but a truly terrible Irish pub he’s had her meet him at a time or two before for business dealings. She’s not sure if he has a stake in it or something, could be he simply finds it convenient. It’s not the kind of place she imagines that anyone would search for either of them at, but the clientele is varied as well as hardened. They’ve never garnered a second look in this place – hell, they’ve not managed a first one from many of the patrons.

They sit at a booth, not the bar, both on the same side, facing out, able to people watch. Rio’s kind of close, but not – it’s not _bad_.

When they do speak, it’s mostly small talk that they cover – the weather, kid activities, schedules. The stop and start doesn’t strike as stilted though, they’ve never been concerned with forcing charming conversation. And it’s been years, decades maybe, since shared silence made Beth antsy. Being married to a man like Dean’ll do that to a person. So too will having a house filled with chattering children, or any familiarity with an Annie.

That silly suggestion from her sister still echoes in the antechambers of Beth’s skull, she’s _almost_ tempted to bring it up to Rio, so they can resoundly pack it away, but. She doesn’t. There’s no need.

And then they’ve finished off their beers, Rio stands, ready to head off. He offers her a brief single-fingered salute, the tip of his pointer tapping quick off the side of his head before his eyes meet her in a way that’s not _awkward_ , because he never is, but – surreptitious. That’s the moment when Beth realises – oh, this was _fine_. There wasn’t a whiff of the disastrous, surprisingly. And that means it could happen again.

*

There’s no particular rhythm to it really; a routine does not settle. They just – do this, sometimes. A drink here or there, and maybe their reasons for meeting up chance a little leaner. But it’s not like it’s a _problem_. They’re not antagonistic, at least mostly, these days. And that other stuff, it’s behind them now too. Beth doesn’t think about it – at least not in daylight, or when she’s clothed, out of her bed.

Like, yeah, okay. Once, or maybe a little more than that but _barely_ , upon a time, they had sex. But that’s far in the past. It belongs to the version of her that was married to Dean, who was harassed by Agent Turner, that bumbled through her first forays into crime. It’s just a fact. One that has very little bearing on who she is and what she does now.

Sure, there’s still some magnetic – though not necessarily sexual – force, a pull that springs the two of them close. It’s… an understanding maybe, senses forged in strangely similar conditions. But they don’t – whatever, dig in their heels, or smoulder at each other, or play-act like they did. What simmered once, it’s tepid now. She thinks sometimes he recalls it, sees remnants strike across his face. It’s like he’s suddenly just remembered – when she’s holding tight to some point of argument – that he knows what she looks like naked. But then his teeny grin, that glint to his irises, will steam off along with the memory – floating away into the ether. He doesn’t turn their interactions in that direction, doesn’t use their history to lever her, and that’s one more reason for Beth to afford him, and herself, that same respect.

Those first couple of times she had sex with someone else – not Rio, not Dean – it was _weird_. But not bad. Everything with Rio had been so loaded; giant and intense. Encounters that were merely fun, left space for giggling during, were rather freeing – even if they impacted as slightly dulled in comparison. And the more she’d done it, the more used to it she became.

Beth had eventually relented to Annie’s pestering, had wandered into the world of online dating. Nothing ever got very serious – Beth lets things peter out, even sinking to ghosting when a dude would not take the hint, which she swore she’d _never_ do. It’s not like she makes up excuses exactly, she _is_ busy. Just – it’s clear, to her, to them, that she’ll always be this way, and if she chose to re-prioritise she could probably make more time for whomever. But as she piles up rainchecks, citing children and work commitments, it’s always obvious in an unspoken way that that’s never going to happen.

And she’s unbelievably happy with that. But maybe it’s having those experiences under her belt – pretty literally – which has helped to dull the flames. Whatever the cause, she doesn’t judder as a live wire under Rio’s scrutiny any more, and she’s grateful.

*

One evening, when they’re a few drinks deep, Rio’s very much not regaling Beth with a sprawling, somewhat muttered, anecdote about fixing a chest of drawers. He’s so _bad_ at it, she realises with a start. His stories have strange, non-chronological, forks, and sometimes he gets so crankily heated when he’s complaining that it becomes extremely hard to follow what he’s on about. Rio keeps pulling these stupid face too, which only serve to throw her off, and, worst of all, his impressions of pretty much everyone – bar his son – all sound like Cartman.

If Ruby were here, and if Rio didn’t still freak Ruby out far too much, she would definitely be deeply mocking him for his appalling storytelling skills.

But Beth’s diligently nodding along, making sympathetic grunts about, she thinks, an idiot salesman, half-listening. And that’s when she realises – _fuck_.

She’s incapable of preventing herself from making the kind of face that accompanies a gasp – though at least Beth didn’t drop any dramatic sounds – and Rio notices, of course he goddamn has to. Beth wipes her expression clean, but it’s clearly too late.

“What?” he asks, one nostril and lip wrinkling with suspicion.

Rio looks like he’s waiting for her to announce she’s forgotten to do something vitally important, a small amount pissed that she wasn’t listening but mostly poised to launch into triumph – over being right, or wiser, or whatever. God, he was born a competitive little shit, she’s sure of it.

But – that’s very much not it. Beth was struck sharp by how _she_ was being, it reminded her of cooing sympathetically to Stan over church politics, or around Annie’s vape-purchasing woes. Shit she doesn’t give a hoot about conceptually – but is willing to care about fiercely for _them_. For her– Ugh. Well, he’s handed her an out at least, she absolutely could claim she’s got to run off and deal with something, but–

“I just remembered something Annie said.” Beth shrugs it out, makes it casual, then gestures for Rio to go on.

He pauses though, raking her over with his glance. “Oh yeah?” he drawls. “Wassat?”

It seems he can still read her too well. But, whatever, she wouldn’t mind putting this annoying, continually returning thought to rest – surely he can dismiss the notion easily. And it’s not like she’ll be sad to see the back of his lengthy furniture tale.

“Oh, she was talking about,” here Beth breaks off to motion between the two of them – a zippy invisible line – “you and I being b– being friends.”

Rio looks at her like he’s waiting for her to say more, offer some greater explanation. So Beth busies herself with taking a large sip, and then another.

His face becomes gripped with – it could be playfulness. Or a protective veneer. Maybe they’re the same sort of thing, with him. Then he says, “Friends close, enemies closer, ain’t that how it goes?”

Beth wants to scoff, or roll her eyes, or. There’s this urge to smack at his upper arm lightly – to perhaps tap her fingers against his. It’s sudden, appears from nowhere, she’s quite certain she’s never been motivated to touch him in _that_ way before.

“We’re not _enemies_.” Beth says it decisively, because. Well, because she believes it. And maybe she needs him to too.

“Hmm,” Rio’s head tilts from one side to the other. “Not now.”

She doesn’t like how his non-committal vibe pinches at her, even if it’s probably pretty logical, at least on paper. The idea that he thinks their accord easily breakable, their positions fluid still, it _hurts_ – far more than she would have anticipated.

But he gestures to the bar, holding her gaze, silently asking if she’s keen on a refill. A lazy smile saunters around the edges of his lips as she nods, after a second of thought.

Rio turns back to her when he’s done ordering. Her tipsy mind is meandering, filled with the sounds and sights present, what they were speaking of isn’t at the forefront.

“Friend _ly_ ,” Rio suggests, jolting Beth back.

She grins, toasting him with her dregs before reaching for the fresh glass.

*

Beth has a Christmas _system_ , okay. There’s several lists involved, which all get checked a hell of a lot more times than twice.

She’s running through the one with her gift ideas – she’s planning on crafting more of them again than in the past few years, actually has the time for it now – and when she gets to the end of it, her lips scribble around a bit.

She’s been having a feeling– Or no. A mere notion might be all. Fuck it, she thinks eventually, pencilling a couple more names on the back of the sheet, but linking them – with a pair of asterisks – to a spot in the middle. The ordering matters, at least it does to her. The bottom place only belongs to one person – Dean. Even his new girlfriend’s name is rows and rows above.

She has plans to buy, not make, Dean something perfectly serviceable but entirely impersonal. It’s petty but – she thinks she’s earned the right to be so, with her sketchy ex-husband.

*

Beth gives her entire staff a few days off both before and after Christmas, without really dwelling on it. It’s only when she casts her eye properly over the – paper – schedule that she discovers there’s supposed to be a drop on the 23rd.

She’s only a small bit reticent when she calls Rio. She’s fairly confident he’s not going to treat this like a _huge_ deal; but the reason their working relationship goes mostly smoothly is down to the way they’ve refused to linger amongst friction points.

He sounds amused when she explains, thank god. Says, “Maybe I oughta give mine them days off too, don’t want my crew defecting or nothin’.”

Beth mms.

“Bet you feed ‘em better too.”

She flushes a little at that, not sure if she’s pleased or what, thinking of the treats she tends to serve at staff catch ups.

“So we’ll reschedule – for after the holidays?” is what she says, ignoring his comments.

“I can just drop it to you.” It doesn’t sound like a suggestion. “Got business that evening anyway.”

Beth thinks she could say no, and that it would still be okay, probably. They don’t do that any more, the mundane low level tasks. And he’s not been to her house since– in a very long time.

But she finds herself agreeing anyway because. Well, what the hell.

*

On the afternoon of the 23rd he lets himself in, Beth assumes through the back door, just like old times. One moment she’s alone, the next she’s not. She doesn’t scream or startle, Rio’s sudden presence feels familiar, unused to him popping up amongst her belongings as she is.

He drops the duffel down, and Beth thanks him politely, though she’s not really sure why.

It takes her a second or two to work up the courage, but she says, “I’ve got something for you.”

Rio’s head tips, and she goes to find said items. They’re loose, though she’s had ample opportunity to package them up, the wrapping paper abounds. Presenting the gifts properly as such had felt – too aggressively pre-meditated. Beth places the two hats, both knitted in a rich chocolate brown and deep red, the colours zigzagging alternately, on the counter.

Rio walks closer, running a careful hand over the wool.

“My dad,” she says, “he had all these photos of him as a boy with _his_ father – in matching hats...” Beth trails off, she hardly ever talks about her parents, even with Annie, she’s out of practice at it. She’ll entertain her kids’ questions about them, though they never seem to have many. She’s not sure if that’s the adaptability of children (the norm being whatever their normal is) or an understanding that mommy has some sadness to her.

She clears her throat to add, “I thought it’d be cute.”

He’s looking at her, keen, but he doesn’t say anything.

So she continues explaining, “I made Marcus’ a little large. Kids grow so fast!”

“You’re telling me,” Rio snorts, and it relaxes her.

“I can’t believe I’m the mother of a _teenager_ ,” Beth grumbles, almost under her breath.

“Don’t look it neither.”

She can’t quite say his tone is gallant, but it does make her smile. Her expression wrings somewhat sarcastic, but there’s candour there too.

He picks both items up, says, “Elizabeth – thank you.”

Beth nods.

“Got you something too,” he adds, putting the matching hats away gently.

Her smile re-forms into a soundless laugh, anticipating an awful joke, or a new schedule perhaps.

But he pulls some actual packets from a different pocket to the one he’s housed the headgear in, and she has to move closer, to peer at what they might be.

Rio offers them out to her, “Don’t recall you havin’ bulbs out there.”

It’s certainly not phrased as a question, but there’s one tangled inside – like he wants to make sure he hasn’t made a very wrong move.

He’s right, her garden does lack them, though lately Beth has been thinking on the topic. Her mother had loved daffodils, they’d always brought joy to her face. Until one day – they no longer did.

Beth had a couple of irises, in cramped conditions, in the first apartment. Back when it had just been her and Dean, then Kenny too. She’s never planted much in the way of perennials here at all, always enjoyed the task of re-imagining her garden year on year. And maybe there were reasons, buried and unexamined, which had edged her uneager to root her old life with flowers that could bloom the same, endlessly.

She examines the packages – lilies and tulips. They’re not much to look at really, with the cartoonish images and diligently printed Latin names. But there’s such _promise_ to them that it makes her breath catch. Beth thanks Rio very seriously, incapable of smothering the surprise on her face, worried she must look almost _scared_.

She’s about to break the silence with an offer of a drink when Rio says, “Gotta head out soon.”

And, oh yeah, he did say he had business of some description tonight.

His lips purse together briefly before he says, “Wanna ride along? Old times and whatnot?”

Beth looks down at herself, at her navy pyjama set and chunky bed socks, then trills out a giggle.

Rio’s lashes dip lazily, “It’s a pick up, not a meet an’ greet.”

She _shouldn’t_ , right. Dean’s bringing the kids back to her tomorrow and she is certain that she ought to be sorting stuff, putting on the finishing Christmas-y touches. Only – only this is her first year attending to Christmas prep without her brood underfoot. And it’s made her insanely efficient, there isn’t much left that she can do yet. That’s how she ended up in her PJs so early, wandering around the house in disorientation.

He must clock her wavering, because Rio adds, “Only a coupla hours outta town.”

That clinches it for her – the prospect of driving to a slightly distant spot, hopefully catching pretty glimpses of nature, in the snowy twilight sounds too magical to give up.

So Beth shrugs on her giant coat, shoving stuff into her pockets, deciding she doesn’t need a purse if she’s heading out in her nightwear. She grabs a favoured scarf, then slips on some loose boots before following Rio out.

*

The drive there is enjoyable enough – Rio bullies her into singing a little when the radio cuts out. He’s somewhat cagey, doesn’t want to explain what he’s off to collect at first, but she pries enough information from him to assume she’s guessed it correctly eventually.

Beth stays in the car when he goes to – whatever. He’s not gone that long, but there’s something about the peacefulness as she waits that empties her mind, soothes worries away. She’s almost drunk on calm, and it sticks around her as they head on back to Detroit. The fresh snowfall is utterly enchanting at first, hypnotises her. But suddenly Beth finds that she’s holding her breath, anxiety antagonising her insides, though she’s unsure of why – at least initially.

It’s when she looks over at Rio, his clenched jaw and white-knuckled grip, that she realises she’s been imbibing the tension seeping from him. It reorients her head, takes her back to harsh reality. There’d been other cars on the road on the drive out, but she realises she doesn’t think they’ve seen _any_ vehicles as they headed back towards town.

The car swerves awkwardly, but then everything’s fine for a stretch. It happens a second time, though, then a third. It’s not long after that, visibility notably worsening, that Rio sucks in a hissing breath and halts their progress.

She knows what he’s going to say before he pushes the words out, angling unwilling, “Thinkin’ maybe we should stop till the weather clears up.”

The windows are thoroughly snow-spattered now; they’ve been paused less than a minute.

“Stop?” Beth echoes, kind of plaintive. “I have to get home. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow–”

“I _know_. But this seem like driving weather?”

She has to concede he has a point. “But–”

Rio’s already squinting at his phone, gathering intel. “Supposed to clear up by morning.”

Beth sighs, “So what, you want to sleep in the car?”

He makes a considering noise, and she catches sight of what he’s pouring over now – his fancy map app with the unpronounceable name.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks, and she only blinks in confusion. He cannot possibly be serious.

He grins at her. “Someone I know got a cabin round here.”

Beth’s eyes narrow. “You want to go – rambling around in a snow storm, or whatever? Abandon our only means of transport? That doesn’t sound smart, what if the car ends up snowed in?”

Rio shrugs. “Can’t see how it’s better to be stuck in a snowed in car.”

And well – that seems fair, actually.

“If we can’t drive outta here for some reason in the morning, we call someone to come get us.”

He’s already making quick work of emptying his glove compartment of useful objects – she sees a portable phone charger, some trail mix, and his gun disappear into the large pockets of his coat.

“Fine,” Beth agrees, though he’s not exactly acting like she hadn’t already done so.

He pulls on that hat, the one she’d knitted for him, with an encouraging grin. And – yeah, okay. It’s not hard for her to trust his judgement at least.

*

The walk is horrible – and _hard_.

Flakes of frozen water choke her eyelashes, the wind whips the same filler to her nose and mouth. She’s so _cold_ – the material of her pyjamas is lightweight, their cut insufficient. Her bulky coat hinders her walking speed, especially with how it dances against her legs. The boots have decent grip at least, but they don’t sit tight against her, making it difficult to maintain a speedy clip. She’s woefully unprepared for this, had never considered the possibility.

Beth has to keep her head down against the wind, and she must stay in that position too long or something, because suddenly she finds she’s lost sight of Rio. She tries to call out for him, but unrepentant gusts snatch the syllables away. She can feel frustrated tears assembling, terror claws at her.

But then suddenly she feels hands on hers and her eyes open – she has no memory of shutting them.

“Jesus, mama, you’re freezing.” He pulls her close, rubbing her hands in his.

She huffs quietly, because – yeah, _obviously_. But also because he’s wearing a pair of sunglasses and looks profoundly ridiculous in the dark night, as if he’s searching for a rave in the woods. Although he doesn’t seem to need to hide his face from the sky, so she supposes he might be onto something.

Rio plucks his hat from his head, shoving it low on hers instead, then tightens her scarf. He starts dragging her along with him, almost matching her slower pace.

He stops suddenly, makes a pensive sound close to her ear while peering about, then switches direction. Beth continues going with him easily enough, she’s hardly eager to hang about longer than necessary or, worse, alone.

  
She can’t help herself from asking, frightened, “Are we lost?”

“You ain’t the most trusting person, huh?” he counters with.

She thinks she hears him laughing at her grumblings about city boys and the great outdoors, but it’s hard to tell amongst the howls. She’s terrified, but there’s nothing else to do but go where he guides – trying to fend off the worst of the chill and the assaulting precipitation.

Then, it lessens. She uncurls her head, discovers they’re standing on a sheltered porch.

Beth gulps a huge, relieved breath before asking, “This is your friend’s place?”

There’s no real reason to ask it, it seems self-evident, but it’s desperately enjoyable to hear her own voice properly again.

Rio makes a telltale shifty croak though, then says, “Nah.”

Her eyes dance.

“Closer,” is all he gives her at first. Before, “You weren’t looking too great.”

That annoys her – although she knows he’s not wrong, probably isn’t trying to insult her either. It wasn’t _her_ idea to battle the elements, inappropriately prepped.

“So what,” she gears up with, “you want us to – break into some random place?”

Beth sounds vaguely scandalised, though she already knows she’ll do it, unquestionably. But she’s mad – at him, at herself – that she got caught up enough to come on this random ill-planned jaunt in the first place. She can’t stand the thought of not being there when her children come home to her for Christmas, all because she couldn’t pass up the chance to hang out with Rio. It rankles especially hard because she prides herself on having built a decent working relationship with him, powered by maintaining their distance. It’s almost as if messing with that has angered the fates. She’s been so _stupid_.

Rio lifts a key triumphantly from under the mat. “This really count as breaking in?”

Beth huffs loudly. By the time she’s ready to magnanimously acquiesce, he’s already unlocked the front door, so she simply follows him in.

It’s pretty basic inside – there doesn’t seem to be any electricity – but Rio looks around, using his phone as a flashlight, with approval.

Beth settles appreciatively in a knobbly chair, but startles when Rio drapes his coat on top of her, before he moves over to the fireplace.

“You’ll get cold,” she protests.

“I’m warm blooded,” he tosses back, making a pleased sound over a basket topped with kindling.

Beth blinks sluggishly. “You calling me reptilian?” she snarks, making him snort. His noise transforms when he locates matches on the mantle.

Fairly soon there’s a warm blaze, and Beth’s entirely sans coats, and socks. The pair of them are sitting cross-legged on the floor by the fire, drying out and heating up.

He’s shed the bulk of his clothes but she doesn’t want to– And anyway, the upside of stupid thin pyjamas is that they dehydrate fast. Beth thinks about chasing sleep, but it’s early yet, and the place isn’t exactly rife with comforts. She reckons she’ll need to be more tired before trying it.

Rio sourced what looks to be a bottle of grain alcohol from a vaguely kitchen-themed corner. Beth eventually gulps some down, after turning a great deal of consternation upon it. The taste is awful, but the effect isn’t.

“Aren’t you worried?” she asks.

“You not doing enough of that for the both of us?” Rio says, with an unnecessarily dramatic eye roll.

“I mean – about getting back in time? For Marcus.”

Beth hasn’t seen him make a call, but maybe he’s sent some messages while her attention was hazy.

“It’s his mom’s year.”

“Oh,” Beth says. “You switch?”

“Mmhm.”

It’s not a weird concept, but when she’d been knitting those hats she’d always envisioned the two of them together, inseparable.

“So, you’ll be with your family?” Beth asks.

Rio gestures outwards with one shoulder. “It’s just the two of us.”

And – oh. She hadn’t pictured– Well, she doesn’t know exactly what she’d been imagining. It sounds right, somehow. But also – a little lonely.

“And your,” here she pauses, because she doesn’t actually know, “ex-wife?” she hazards.

Rio nods, or thereabouts.

Beth continues, “She didn’t invite you?” God, she doesn’t know why she’s so offended for him but–

Rio grimaces, and she immediately brands herself as awful for overstepping. But then it fades, and she realises it wasn’t aimed at her, more framing a thought.

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” he says. “For Marcus,” he adds, by way of explanation. “Seeing the two of us together, might get confusing. Maybe when he’s older.”

And yeah, she gets that in abundance. It’s why she’d insisted on Christmas _alone_ with the kids. She compromised by allowing Dean and Judith and that whole extended bunch Christmas Eve Eve this year, and she gave him Thanksgivings in perpetuity without a fight. Civil but separate is the name of the game.

“’Sides,” Rio adds, “she’s got a huge ass family. It’s kinda. A lot.”

Beth can empathise with that too. Those first few Christmases at Dean’s family home – with all those aunts and uncles and cousins – had been powerfully overwhelming for her.

“You’re going to be alone on Christmas?” she asks softly, hoping it doesn’t come across as judgemental.

He simply shrugs, looking wholly unaffected. “It’s just a day, ma.”

Beth nods. It takes her a while to open her mouth again to say, “I wasn’t a huge fan.”

She’s expecting a dig from Rio, something about suffering from an over-abundance of presents out in the suburbs maybe, but he only silently watches her.

So, “I mean I liked it when I was a little kid. But after my dad left and my mom um– Stuff changed with her, after. Not so fun.”

Rio manages to convey that he acknowledges that, without moving or speaking.

“That’s why it’s so important for me to make a big deal of it for the kids, I think.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, with an understanding twist of his neck. “I like making a fuss of it if I’ve got Marcus. Otherwise, eh.”

It’s not melancholy tinting him, but some kind of relentless practicality. The kind of thing she prides herself on. Seeing it reflected back at her makes her exhausted for him though.

When Beth sees Rio’s eyes light up, she follows his gaze – there’s a pack of cards tucked in the corner of a nearby, otherwise empty, shelf.

“You wanna play something?” she asks.

He mmhms his agreement so seriously, jumping up to grab the deck, looking so charmingly – boyishly – elated at the prospect, that she can’t keep her mouth from curving upwards in response.

“What do you want to play?” slips from her. 

And she sees the tease – in the waggle of his brow, the peek of his tongue – before he makes it, but she’s not fast enough to fend it off.

“Strip poker?” Rio suggests with a smirk.

She was prepared for it, and maybe that’s why she only emits a tiny exasperated sigh. He looks – well, she couldn’t call it regretful, not exactly. But like he might think it wasn’t a smart route to open. And the idea that he frets – perhaps not in the same way as she does, but still – over stuff like that, about anything really, it anchors her.

“You’re pretty close to stripped already there, bud,” Beth says, it’s a little tart, but not mean.

He’s not _quite_ at problematically undressed levels – in a light grey vest and darker boxer-briefs – but she’s made a conscious choice not to peruse. Which hasn’t been too hard, the licking flames have had her entranced enough, prevented her attention from wandering over his form during the quiet gaps. 

“ _Poker_ poker?” is her counter, and he agrees readily enough, doling out matches in lieu of chips.

*

Rio appears to be absolutely terrible at the game, doesn’t seem to grasp the ordering of poker hands. It makes Beth extremely sceptical.

Because, yeah, she’s good. She’s got a neat trick for hiding her tells, always fuzzes her vision when first looking at her cards, able to react in much the same way, whatever she’s been dealt. The best part is, it gets easier the more she drinks. She’s taken plenty of Annie and Ruby’s money in the past – Dean and Stan and Gregg’s too – and they know her ploys about as well as anyone can.

But Rio’s – well he’s Rio. He’s, like, offensively skilled at seeing through her, even when she’s not aware that she’s lying. She’s never been quite sure if that’s a trick he’s perfected in general, or if there’s something particular about her that allows him to turn her outer layers transparent.

“Are you letting me win?” she asks, after what has to be the sixth or seventh hand he’s conceded to her. She finds it hard to believe he’s _this_ bad at it, unless he’s much more familiar with a very different variant.

Rio looks pretty wounded at the question. “Not everyone can be good at everything, jeez.”

She almost feels bad – but there’s so little bite to it, and when she catches him counting something up in a lull between hands, her eyes narrow.

“Are you – are you sneak strip pokering me?!” Beth’s violently incredulous.

His laughter is sudden and bright – and in this warm, stolen, barren place, its richness is almost _too_ much.

Beth can’t be sure still – if he’s honestly as bad at playing poker as he is at telling stories, or if he was faking her out the whole time. He has the confidence to pull off pretending to be secretly amazing at something he has no skill for. It’s unbelievably frustrating, but also – the mystery is kind of enjoyable. It makes her want to probe, find out for certain. But, she thinks as she yawns, not _now_. Her head’s starting to ache.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announces, shoving the piles of cards haphazardly towards Rio. He nods, absently. “And then I think I need to go to sleep.”

There’s a toilet off to one side. The plumbing is evidently ancient, but at least appears to be in working order. The seat’s cold under her butt, despite the glowing ambience they’ve created.

When Beth heads back towards the fire, Rio’s tidied everything back to where they found it; traces of their time erased so easily. She rubs at her socks, hanging by the fire, pulling a face when she realises they’re still heartily damp.

“You can borrow mine.”

It’s a small thing for Rio to offer really, but she’s grateful. His socks are hanging next to hers, the thin cotton already dry and toasty. Her feet swim in them once she’s wearing them, making her feel dainty and graceless all at once.

“Ready for bed?” he asks, and when she nods he starts moving things around. She hadn’t realised he’d turn in too.

Their coats aren’t properly dry, but there’s not much else available for use as pillows, and Rio found a large plastic bag they can wrap at least one in. It’s kind of noisy as he settles his head against it, crinkling with each micro-movement, but Beth bites her tongue.

She’s not – she’s not completely sure what to do. Is she supposed to make a pillow of her own somehow, suffer a moist head if she can’t form a dryer surface? Or does he expect her to share with him?

“C’mere,” he says, pretty authoritatively.

She hesitates for a second, but no longer. He’s right, the fire will surely cool down without one of them awake to tend to it, and they need to stay warm. Apart from damp clothing, their best choice for blankets has to be – each other. And frankly, her frayed nerves could probably use the comfort. It’s not like they’ve never touched each other before. That’s not truly forbidden territory, despite her apprehension over it.

Rio’s flat on his back, so she snuggles in against his side, her head resting on his chest. He lifts his arm up to push her in closer, hand resting at her back.

“We’ll sort it in the morning, yeah?” His voice is a rumble, she can feel the texture of it through the places where their bodies join. “Get you home to them babies in plenty of time.”

“Okay,” Beth says.

It’s not that put-upon ‘okay’ she remembers from holidays with Dean – where he’d swear that the snafu with the hotel booking or the rental car issue or the lost bag wasn’t his fault, but an administrative error that’d be fixed in the morning. She believes Rio implicitly, deep in her sternum.

The rough, uncarpeted floor is neither comfortable nor forgiving, but she drifts off easily enough – listening to the crackle of wood in the fireplace, and the sturdy thrum of Rio’s heartbeat.

*

When she wakes, it’s still dark as pitch outside and she’s shifted. She could have been seeking heat, the flames are low now, but she’s always been a restless sleeper when not alone – prone to shuffling. Dean used to josh that she was trying to kick him out in her sleep and, well, in hindsight maybe he was letting more than she realised slip with lines like that.

She’s facing the grate, Rio’s body is pressed behind her, spooning her tight. She thinks that they must be sharing the pillow, heads close, but that’s not the thing her mind sticks on. He’s – well, not _grinding_ , but his hips are wiggling against her enough that she – is _aware_. An emotion that’s coloured by – or at least close to – embarrassment pools low, but she figures he’s asleep, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. So she just tries to resettle her lower half further away quietly.

Only then the arm slung over her waist starts to move, squeezes at her breast over her top, and it surprises Beth enough that she bolts back into him. Her ass bumps against his crotch, and he’s not the only one who expels a moaning sigh. That spiky feeling spools around further. When Rio’s just rubbing his body against her it’s kind of hypnotic, hard to pause, but then his mouth finds her neck and that long groan falls from her – and really, she has to say something.

“We – we shouldn’t,” she sounds like she’s panting, _christ_.

Rio’s mouth pulls off of her neck slowly as his elbow gains purchase against the makeshift pillow, leveraging him upwards.

His head looms over her with his lean, and Beth will not look at him – cannot do it. It’s _painfully_ awkward.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.

And he’s not moving against her really – she thinks he’s just exhibiting the small jerks that any living, breathing body would. But she’s so alive to it, every point of his flesh as he shudders further or closer. He’s so _there_. It’s not possible to think.

“We work together,” Beth says. It sounds rather like a plea.

That makes Rio snort, and he settles back down. Rustles sound out as he pushes his skull around, carving out previous comforts.

“Worked together before.”

And yes – she’s aware of that, understands exactly what that _before_ signifies.

But. “We weren’t always so good at – working together.”

“Yeah,” Rio says, some weighted snark to it, “seem to remember a coupla epic fuck ups.”

Well, exactly.

But then he continues, “Not sure that’s… mutually inclusive. The way I remember the timeline.”

She supposes, in a way, he’s right. They hadn’t – been intimate yet, back when she got him arrested, or the first few times he’d shoved a gun in her face. And the sexual part had been all done and dusted prior to their, god, kidnapping and shooting fiasco. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t _present_ throughout – a hovering spectre, forming a treacherous spine through all their endeavours.

Beth wouldn’t have _cared_ , or gotten so _enraged_ , or kept going back for more. And it wouldn’t have hurt, or tasted like betrayal, or muddled her so. And he – he would have been savvier, wouldn’t he? She’s sure he would have had the sense to not let her worm her way close. He’s clever, and bad at so few things, and it’s not like she thinks she’s special – not in the grand scheme. Bossing up has given her perspective. But it’s just – it’s hard to tie the man she knows and respects to the fool who kept letting her get away with murder unless–

“What? You don’t think that’s why we kept – hurting each other?” Her eyes are shut firm now, she doesn’t even want to look at a room that has him in it while having this conversation.

Rio hums, one of his hands is playing with her hair. She almost hates that it – that he – is soothing her. Beth hears small noises, like he’s started trying to say something once or twice, but cut himself off.

“You a real worrier, huh,” is what he settles for, eventually.

Her shoulders ripple, it might have been a shrug if she wasn’t on her side, and edged by him and so – confounded.

“Could just be,” he says, light but unplayful, “a one time thing.”

Beth gets the urge to turn around then – desperate to show him the exact right kind of disparaging look. But she doesn’t, fears it would open her – god, and everything – to many tempting quandaries.

He must interpret her quietude for an opportunity, an invitation.

“Isn’t that what friends do, yeah?” There’s teasing in his tone now, it’s not the distressingly earnest, almost vulnerable, realism of a moment ago, but good _god_ it’s not helping. Not with the way Rio’s nosed so close, pouring his thoughts straight into her ear.

It’s a ludicrous proposition. He’s watched too many cheesy movies, or cultivated wildly different friendships to the ones she has. But–

“This ain’t,” she feels him gesture mildly, groping for the right way to express it, “usual life. Don’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

Beth can _almost_ buy it.

“I suppose it is rather romantic,” she admits.

Rio’s immediate bark of laughter stuns her.

Yeah?” he asks, disbelieving. “Weather bad enough to almost take you out, you panicking to high heaven, a cabin that don’t even have a couch, let alone a bed? Shit, mama, you musta been on some terrible dates.”

Beth _wants_ to bristle, but it seems her ability to do it is busted. Maybe she’s too exhausted, too abraded. Or there’s something about being in his arms, the way his fingers slide, that warps the tension from her body – diverts it. She does start to slink in his hold then, rotates to face him. It’s dark – but not _enough_.

“Just tonight?” she asks.

“Yeah.” His agreement is hushed and silken enough to sound close to a sigh.

She can believe him, sure. But her own echo she’s more dubious about. Because no matter how things have reorganised themselves over time, she can’t pretend he’s not the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. Merely the glimpse of his profile, throat swallowing down some terrible beer in their stupid dive bar, can be almost enough to send her waxing poetical. And she is not a woman given to such sentimentality; all of her favourite poems _rhyme_.

Fuck, no matter how sensible, how beneficial, unentwining themselves had been, perhaps it was ultimately foolish. Because she savours every brief moment together, it always tastes like a forbidden thrill. And they’ve gotten arrogant – or at least she has. She assumed they were safe, has been lapping greedily, and he’s not stopped her – has fed her addiction. It’s past the point of creeping back in, her thirst is back with a vengeance, if it was ever truly gone.

But maybe it won’t feel so real, or at least not so strong, away from the fire, and snow, and keenly enveloping solitude. She can’t possibly confront it all – not now. So then she’s kissing him, and that seems to be all the permission he needs.

Rio’s undoing the buttons of her top before she really notices, dazedly lost in the oscillating movements of his mouth against her own. She only properly appreciates the fact when his lips breaks away, and she hears, “Missed you.”

His words are accompanied by a smirk, aimed down, and it’s clear he’s talking to her breasts. She used to _hate_ it when Dean did that. A couple of the guys she’s gone on dates with more recently have done it too, and it was less annoying – but still, childish. With Rio though, it stirs an awful fondness that she doesn’t want to be mired in. The way his mouth travels and caresses over her chest does provide a fantastic distraction, however.

At least until he’s dipped all the way down to the waistband of her pyjama pants. She’s awkward over how _exposed_ she is when he’s pulling them down, though her ass bops up helpfully as he does it, because she’s not wearing any panties and–

“No wonder you was so cold,” Rio says, when he’s had a decent glimpse.

Her brow pulses, folds towards a furrow, but she can’t quite get annoyance to fix firm upon her face.

He’s never seen her like this – waxed bare. Beth got the Brazilian along with all those other delightful spa treatments the other day, though that part certainly hadn’t felt like much of a treat at the time. She’s gotten back into the swing of this particular grooming habit as part of the online dating fun.

Rio ponders their surroundings briefly, before dragging her upwards and dropping himself back down. His hands reach for hers, and he pulls her close, before his unwhispered instructions cause her face to pink up.

Nevertheless, it’s not long before he’s coaxed her atop him, gets her straddling his mouth. And he’s – he’s really going to town. Rio suckles at her clit with great abandon, licks between her folds, shoves his tongue right _inside_ her, generally lets her fuck his face.

Beth remembers the first time he did this with – to – her, back in her bedroom; it’s forever singed into her synapses, unforgettable. It had been filthy, but also _thorough_ and intensely unhurried. It’s not a _huge_ part of what led to her eventual divorce, the way something had broken apart inside her that day, but it was… relevant. The desire to feel, well, that desire. And it’s been a mixed bag, the dating scene. There’s been a couple of guys with talented mouths – though not quite like _this_ – but there have also certainly been some duds. That’s what led her back to the waxing habit, in truth, particularly that guy diligently tonguing at a spot _far_ north of her clitoris with a distressingly expectant manner.

The comparison jolts her back to reality, purely to the moment. And then she’s coming on Rio’s mouth, tumbling down the waterfall of her orgasm, force of habit molds her towards attempts to stifle her groans. She almost collapses forwards afterwards, but his hands steady her – it comes close to shaming her, the certainty of him – till she’s a little more controlled. She wriggles out of his hold, his upper body rises, she slides and shudders, then finds that he’s shifted her into his lap and that Rio’s propped on his outstretched elbows.

She feels – well, she’s not entirely sure. At least a little lost. But also certain that that stupid vest of his has got to go, immediately. Beth shoves it off of him, with a dose of help, her usually nimble fingers turned clumsy. And when she has access to his bare skin she just kind of – nuzzles, presses in tight. It’d be sweet, probably, if it wasn’t for the way their hips instinctively move to find each other. He’s so hard and she’s so _gone_ – post-orgasmically drenched and dazed; the way he’s humping up towards her turns practically penetrative, though the barrier of his underwear is still present.

Beth tries to winch herself upwards with a hand on his shoulder, still pushing blankly at the material remaining on him with her other hand. Rio seems to get it, though his hips hardly still, and he moves to divest himself of his underwear.

It’s only the smallest break in absolute proximity, but already it’s unfogged her slightly. “Condom?” she says, accessing practicalities.

His eyelashes pinch together rapidly a few times. “Shit,” Rio says, with the heaviest sigh and a hand at his jaw.

“What?” Beth says, although she _understands_ – it’s just… “I’ve seen you move, like, every item in the world in or out your pockets tonight.” She’s pouting, she knows she is, but really – it can’t be helped.

Rio sort of laughs – the noise is strangled but it vibrates, close. “Wasn’t exactly planning _this_ ,” he counters, then his gesturing hand falls back down to her. It’s sturdy and reassuring in its size and temperature and simple fact of its existence as it skates her side, firms warm purchase at her hip.

Beth thinks that he’s an idiot, that they both are, not to always plan for – or worry about – this potential eventuality.

Rio’s other hand rubs at his temple briefly, “We don’t gotta–”

But Beth interrupts, partly because that’s not a real option, she’s already fighting hard to not just sink down on him, but also because the idea that he’s about to make some awful Annie-style gesture is spurring her onwards to avoid having to see it.

“Can you,” she starts, a little shy, “can you pull out?”

It’s not dark enough, maybe it couldn’t be, to prevent her seeing how the look in his eyes shifts at that.

“Yeah,” he rasps, then with an evil smile, “if you let me.”

A flush stalks Beth’s flesh, because she knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about, the memory apparently undulled by time–

The move of Rio’s mouth against her own distracts her – the kiss is deep and soothing. Maybe that was his intent, because she doesn’t really take in what’s happening when he gathers her close, not till he’s laid her down on the floor. She might have been able to find comfort there before, wrapped up in him, but it’s harsh against her back, her naked skin. Rio is still kissing her though, and he’s worked his body between her legs – nudging her thighs even wider with his own. One of his hands starts playing in her cunt, and she finds she doesn’t have it in her to raise a complaint about a modest hardship after all.

Rio’s mouth breaks away, and Beth sighs, but her eyes snap open. And really, it’s impossible to be disappointed by anything when she has that sight in front of her. He’s still _so_ – And her response remains– The electricity crackling between them has _not_ diminished, not a flake.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks, half-smirking, and she thinks the question frankly absurd, with the way the head of his penis is pressed against her, how her pelvis is rolling enthusiastically.

She wants to say something dry like, ‘always’ or ‘could I ever be’, but she can’t trust her voice, so instead Beth crooks her heels into his ass, colliding him closer and mock-glaring. The way unspilled merriment lights his face is – it’s something. But Beth’s soon more focussed on the full force – the stretch – of him, as he pushes inside of her, finally.

He’s leaning over her, eyes to her face, mostly, as he thrusts a couple of times, watches her adjust. Rio tries to start off slow, but no – that’s not what she wants, Beth realises. He matches her pace easily once he’s over the slight stuttering surprise. Beth can’t stop staring transfixed up at him as she rumbles her hips against his, hands roaming his body, unseeing, desperate for purchase. Her broken breath sounds loud to her own ears, but she can’t shut her mouth, can’t stop forming that awed, trembling shape with it. It’s a configuration she recognises from art galleries, from gorgeous sculptures in museums, from past reflections.

This unfettered access to Rio’s face – there’s no goddamn reason to look away, to bother being smart, not here and now – is powerful. There’s not much that could make her lose that opportunity. But then she’s overcome with how _close_ his mouth is, and that it’s okay to do it, so she surges upwards and kisses him until he groans. He says something against her lips but she doesn’t hear, can’t process. Beth has to pull back a little, and _god_ , her jaw won’t quit wobbling.

“Sweetheart,” Rio says, and it sounds like he’s repeating himself. But in a way that suggests he’s amused, not annoyed, for it.

And when she does manage to focus, she finds that he’s basically been admonishing her to touch herself and she–

She hadn’t really taken in the way that he’d angled himself, that both his palms were propped near her shoulders. Everything’s happened – very fast if also far too slow; in low light and often primarily by touch; overwhelmingly confusingly. Beth’s been lost in the beautiful sight and solid contact of him, hasn’t spared much thought for _mechanics_. But it’s _intimate_ and close in a way that she’s not– That she didn’t think that they– Even that time in her bedroom, it wasn’t quite like _this_.

Her clit already strikes alight with sensation, from the way Rio’s grinding down against her body – but Beth’s ready to obey. One of her hands leaves the place it’s found at the back of his neck to clutch briefly at her right breast – thumb whirling over the nipple – as he suddenly changes angle, or beat, or _something_ , unexpectedly. Beth clenches around him, back arching upwards. Her hand pushes down her body and, fuck, she finds it intricate work to shove a fingertip _enough_ against her clitoris, with the way Rio’s pushed to her. He shifts slightly though, making it easier for her, and it doesn’t take much more of anything. Beth’s whole body feels like it’s spasming outwards, pleasure curves and warps, heavy moans spill.

Her noises change shape when he pulls out, but Rio’s fingers sweeping over her _there_ soothe and then agitate her in the best possible way. He’s kneeling up now, back straight, and she can’t not love his engrossed stare as he paints her stomach.

They’re just panting at each other a while, and Beth’s mind is mostly pleasingly blank, but she does want to clean up. There’s tissues by the toilet, she placed them there earlier, and she thinks she _might_ gather the strength to sit up at least, sometime soon. Maybe. But then Rio grabs his vest, swipes at her skin diligently, his crotch after. It’s stupid, she thinks, surely they’ll need all the warmth they can get again come morning proper. But it’s also nice to be taken care of, so she lets it go. She vaguely thinks that they should dress, but then he’s lying next to her, pulling her so close. He’s somehow furnace-style, and she’s so, so fuzzy, so Beth only yawns the once – and then she’s out.

*

In the morning, bright sunlight streaming across it all, Beth presses a kiss to his lips, unthinking. Because his mouth is right _there_ , and she likes doing it. Rio goes with it, continuing until she realises – that’s not who they are, pulling back.

Dressing is somewhat awkward, partially because of the way his eyes devour her. But she _needs_ to get going, can’t handle waiting, is certain he’s aware of that reality.

The weather is calm, the world blanketed in eerie quiet, as they head out, back towards the car. Rio grabbed a spade he found, just in case, but promised her they’d return it to the cabin before they take off for good. He’s a little handsy as they make their way, under the murky guise of steadying her, helping her along. Her complete lack of complaint must embolden him, because he works up to stealing more than one quick kiss.

It’s the first morning in a very long time that Beth has started without coffee. Her mind certainly feels slow, but not sluggish; it’s like she’s taking everything in from a great distance. There’s a distinctly enjoyable unreality to it all. And she thinks – just a one, more, time thing, that’s what they agreed to. But this is still within those confines, maybe, after all they’re not technically unstranded yet.

Beth turns her phone back on during the walk. She switched it straight off, after shooting Ruby and Annie an explanatory message last night, telling them not to worry and that she’d be uncontactable while she was conserving battery in case of an actual emergency. She’d also promised that she’d let them know if she and Rio needed their help in the morning.

She smiles seeing the messages they sent in response – sweet and concerned, but trusting, then turning saucy. She tries to make sure her phone is angled in a way that Rio can’t see the texts as she peruses.

The car’s fine when they get to it, not much digging is necessary – but Beth is grateful for the spade. The engine starts without problem when they’ve clambered inside, and her heart croons with how glad she is.

Suddenly she swears, loud. Before Rio’s even halfway through a ‘what’, Beth’s hissing, “Fucking Dean _decided_ he’s dropping the kids earlier today. Without asking me.”

Rio sort of whistles on an intake of breath. “Okay, mama, well we’re ready to head out–”

“We still have to put the spade back!” she snaps.

He reels back a bit at her tone, and she’s instantly grubby with guilt as a result, but they were bickering about it earlier and she’d won and, god, they don’t need any more bad karma. She aches with the tug of multiple directions.

“Can do that later.” Rio says it definitively, and just starts driving. She wants to argue, but he’s so obviously right, and she so clearly wants to shave any time off their journey that they can. It always surprises her when he doesn’t rise at her barbs, in her memories he’s as annoyed at her as she was at him. But she suspects that he doesn’t truly know unbridled rage – that his anger is more of a tool, a performance, for keeping people in line.

Nothing seems to matter much though, sobs choke at her throat as she glares at the time displayed on her phone, willing it to be wrong.

“We’re never going to make it back before Dean.” Beth tries to make it listless, her frustration over this is somewhat mortifying.

She’s not even sure why she cares so much. Dean dropped a new arrangement on her, assuming she’s got nothing better to do than cave to his whims still. He could stand to wait around for her, certainly! But she doesn’t want to disappoint and confuse her children by not being there when they arrive – and probably have an argument with their father in front of them to boot. And she doesn’t – she can’t really handle the idea of fucking something of this ilk up for them, for her. Not because she was off criming, or rather using it as an excuse to spend time with Rio. The equation isn’t as simple as unsatisfied children on one side, mind-blowing sex for mommy on the other. But, ultimately, that’s a fair summary. She is certain that she is selfish and silly and–

“What about–” Rio starts, and it’s _weird_. She actually hadn’t thought of it until she saw his face, but instantly she’s cutting him off with a bunch of ‘uh huh’s, and calling Annie.

Her sister actually _does_ shut up and listen, putting a pin in her questions for now, when Beth insists on it. The exasperation and desperation must be carved into her tone.

Annie listens to her rant about Dean, muttering soothing insults about him back to Beth throughout.

“So do you think you can get to mine Annie? Meet him and the kids? Say I had, I don’t know, an ingredient emergency and I’ll be back soon?”

Beth waits with bated breath. She knows her sister would do anything for her, but she also has her own – kinda messy – life and she might be without transport again or in the midst of a problem of her own.

  
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Annie says with a great deal of confidence.

“Oh gosh, thank you so much!” Beth starts, but Annie’s going again, cutting her off.

“I mean, I’m already at your house.”

“What? Why?”

“Well I don’t have to pick Sadie up from Gregg for a few hours… And I wanted to hear about your Gangfriend adventure. You’re always so tight lipped, figured I’d have to ambush you if I wanted the sexy deets.” Annie probably thinks her voice is restrained, that might be the worst part.

Beth eyes Rio, he’s acting nonchalant but she’s almost certain he can hear every word through the tinny speaker. Still, when she’s ended the call with Annie she feels brighter, hope-stroked.

They’re driving in silence, the kind that’s companionable. Although there’s tension it’s an excited, straining kind that makes a nervous smile judder repeatedly to her mouth. There’s one upon her when a text comes through, alerting Beth to the fact that Annie’s received the children, who are perfectly pleased with extra auntie time, and sent Dean packing.

Beth grins until her cheeks hurt, the ache unconcerning. And Rio – he gives her the same right back, then takes her hand, strokes at it.

It slips out, the question, before she even realises she owns the thought. “Do you want to join us?”

Rio glances to her, a diagonal flick up of his ocular focus.

She could backtrack, maybe, but. “Tomorrow. For Christmas?” Beth can’t help but amend slightly. “To eat? It’s just gonna be me and the kids.”

“Wouldn’t be weird for them?” he asks, careful.

She shrugs. “You’re my friend, right?”

Rio’s lips fold down, but it’s not a frown, it doesn’t even look like consideration. It’s just – peaceful.

“Okay,” he agrees, “yeah.”

Warmth trickles, from the deep, relaxed breath filling her lungs, throughout her whole frame.

Neither of them say anything more till they’re parked down her street.

“Thank you,” Beth says, genuinely, though she’s stumped as to what exactly she’s saying it for.

He nods, easy, bottom lip jutting and lashes shuttered. And then she undoes her seatbelt, shaky till he does the same, leans closer. It’s far too easy to press her lips to his at that distance, so she does it, keeping it fairly light.

“What time?” he asks, when she’s drifted away, and it’s only when she has to prise her eyes open that she realises they’d slipped shut.

“Huh?” Beth breathes, generally fluttering.

  
Rio’s smiling in a bemused, soft way. She wants to hold onto the image forever.

“What time you eating tomorrow?”

“Oh,” she says, “it’s just me and the kids,” she tells him, a little helpless.

His head bobs, though it’s a poor explanation. She figures he understands what she means – how liberating that is, how specifically scheduled she doesn’t need to be.

Beth unlocks her phone to squint at the time, frowning a bit.

“Shit,” she mutters, catching his intrigued look as her gaze comes back up. “I’m behind on food prep already.”

“Oh yeah?” Rio asks lazily. “Want a hand?” One of his reaches to play with her hair as he says it, then travels down to settle at her shoulder. His fingers are only _just_ not ghosting her breast.

She wants to interrogate – ask if he can cook, or take instructions without arguing. But also – “Okay.”

They start scrambling out of the car in unison before she remembers to point out, “Annie’s in there.”

He snorts. “Think I can handle her.”

Beth admires his bravery if not his sense, she’s certain innuendo and pestering await behind her front door.

And, god, there’s things she needs to say, to straighten out. So she grabs Rio’s hand and pauses her steps, so he’s forced to stop and look at her.

  
“We need to be careful, in front of the kids–”

But he just squeezes her hand, rolls his eyes slightly. “Yeah ma, wouldn’t let you kiss me in front of Marcus neither.”

He’s staring into her eyes, unmoving. Beth thinks she might have heard an unspoken ‘yet’.

And really – she should have some more words. She distinctly remembers an a _greement_ that this was a one-time thing, that it wouldn’t spill into their real lives. She’s not sure if he tricked her somehow, or if she merely played herself – if one of them is an evil genius, or if they’re extremely stupid in combination. Maybe their bubble moment is expanding reasonably, the holidays aren’t normal exactly, perhaps they aren’t quite _that_ insane. The absolute worst part is that she can’t bring herself to care.

The way Rio’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips sends her somewhere thrilling. It gets far, far worse when he leans close to add, against her ear, “Save it for the bedroom, yeah?”

Beth groans, at least partly because that’s not what she’d _meant_ when she invited him in, the day before a loosely timed Christmas meal. Although. _Although_.

The hand that isn’t still entwined with hers is fondling one of her ass cheeks.

“Yes,” Beth says. “Fine.”

Rio’s grin is blinding as he starts dragging her to her porch. “C’mon _pal_ ,” he insists in that maddening drawl that she thinks she’ll always retain a secret soft spot for, no matter what.

She squishes his hand just once more before dropping it, and then they gear up to head on in. Questing for subtlety, she realises she can’t manage much of it unless she literally doesn’t look at him. Beth’s pretty sure none of her kids are dumb enough to truly buy this act for long, but there’s a slim chance Annie might be briefly fooled, or at least distracted with food.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from You've Got A Friend by Carole King.
> 
> Enemies to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers is kinda my jam.


End file.
